


The Mage of the Castle and the Mage of the Cavern

by With_the_Wolves



Series: Febuwhump 2021 [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst with a Happy Ending, Imprisonment, M/M, Violence, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29192529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/With_the_Wolves/pseuds/With_the_Wolves
Summary: "The guards come for Jon while he’s sleeping, and it’s only when he is gagged and bound and slung over one of their shoulders, being carried down an endless staircase, that he starts to stir. Even then, awareness comes to him slowly, his mind sluggish. It won’t occur to him until much later that he has been drugged."Jon's been kidnapped, held in a deep, dark dungeon that he could never hope to escape. But he's not panicking. Jonah will come for him. He will.Written for Febuwhump, Day 3: Imprisonment
Relationships: Elias Bouchard | Jonah Magnus/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker
Series: Febuwhump 2021 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2139420
Comments: 6
Kudos: 81
Collections: febuwhump 2021





	The Mage of the Castle and the Mage of the Cavern

The guards come for Jon while he’s sleeping, and it’s only when he is gagged and bound and slung over one of their shoulders, being carried down an endless staircase, that he starts to stir. Even then, awareness comes to him slowly, his mind sluggish. It won’t occur to him until much later that he has been drugged.

Still, Jon _does_ eventually realize what’s happening. He fights against his captor’s grip, but the man’s arms are strong and unyielding. Good thing, too—Jon realizes belatedly that breaking his captor’s hold on him would only lead to a bad fall and bruises for him.

“He’s awake,” the man carrying him grunts.

“Stay sharp,” a second voice answers. Jon looks up, and there is a second guard walking behind them. The staircase is dimly lit, but Jon can just make out Jonah’s crest prominently displayed on her uniform.

Jon tries to ask her what’s happening, where they’re taking him and why. But his words are hopelessly muffled by the gag in his mouth.

The woman’s mouth crooks into a smile. “Told you the gag was a good idea.”

The man shifts Jon on his shoulder. “I still think we should have followed our orders exactly.”

Orders? What orders? From who? These guards are wearing Jonah’s crest, but surely their ‘orders’ didn’t come from him. They must be traitors, then, or, or spies. Taking him hostage, to be held for ransom.

( _Or tortured. Or killed. Jonah has plenty of enemies who might want to enact vengeance by harming his beloved._ )

Jon doesn’t let himself think of that. Instead, he focuses on taking in as many details as he can. It’s not an encouraging sign that the guards chose not to hide their faces, but Jon resolves to make them regret that fact. He’ll escape this, make it back to Jonah.

( _How did they get him out of Jonah’s private rooms? How did they get past Jonah’s wards? Is Jonah alright, is he safe?_ )

It doesn’t matter. Jon has to believe that Jonah is fine. There’s no point in keeping Jon, otherwise. Unless—No. Jon refuses to waste his energy on idle fantasies. He watches the guards. He watches the stone walls, twisting down deeper and deeper into the ground. He counts their steps, and when he loses count he counts the torch sconces on the walls. When he loses count of those, he pays attention to the quality of the stone, which is getting less and less impressive as they go deeper.

They reach a door, and the guard holding Jon lets go with one arm to open it. The door is bolted shut with a beam of heavy iron, and the second guard has to help him lift it. Dread pools in Jon’s stomach as they carry him into the room.

It’s a vast cavern, dimly lit, although not by any natural means. It’s largely empty, nothing but a stone floor and blank stone walls. At the center of the room is a massive rock, with two iron shackles connected to it by long chains.

Jon fights the guards as they attach the chains—his pride will allow nothing else—but he knows it’s fruitless. Either of the guards could handle him on their own, and there are two of them. They untie his hands, and the woman holds him down easily as the other places the shackles on his wrists.

Only when he’s so restrained do they untie his feet, allowing him to stand. And then… They leave him there, chained to the rock. The door closes behind them, and he hears the iron bar swing down with a loud _thunk_.

He’s alone. Still gagged, more trapped than he was before. His breath begins to come faster as he starts to panic. He doesn’t know why he’s here, he doesn’t know what to do, he—

No. Panicking is not going to help. He has to hold on to his composure, no matter how difficult it is. He takes a deep breath. Another. His breathing is still shaky, but it’s better.

He sits down for a little while, thinks. Takes everything he knows about what is happening, and arranges them, negatives and positives.

Negatives: There is most likely nothing he can do for himself in this situation, chained and trapped as he is. He is hidden far underground, in a prison that is likely shielded from magic. He is entirely at the mercy of the traitorous guards that brought him here, as well as whichever party gave them their orders.

Positives: Jonah _will_ look for him, if he hasn’t started already, and he won’t stop until he’s found him. If Jon can stay calm until that happens, he’s in a perfect position to obtain information about Jonah’s enemies. And… Maybe his captors made a mistake in chaining him to the stone.

The chains are heavy, but if Jon can break them, he will have a decent weapon to attack the next person that opens the door. They’ll have to come back, if only to give him food. And when they do, Jon can swing his chains at them and escape.

Jon examines every inch of the chains, but they are solid. Even the place where they are driven into the stone is magically fused. There is no way to break them.

Jon sits down again.

( _Jonah will come for him._ )

***

It’s two days later, as far as Jon can tell. Jon lays on the cold floor, too exhausted to even shiver anymore. He’s thirsty, and hungry, and it seems increasingly likely that he’s been left to die in here.

The door opens, and Jon’s eyes snap towards it. He sits up, heart pounding with something between hope and fear.

And then he sees who has entered his prison, and Jon forces himself to his feet, feeling the most acute relief he’s ever had. It’s Jonah, of course it is, Jonah.

Jonah approaches him, and as soon as he’s close enough, Jon throws his arms around him, careful not to hit him with the chains. He buries his face in Jonah’s shoulder, torn between laughing and crying. He’s so happy, so relieved. ( _He’d been so scared._ )

Jonah’s hands go to Jon’s hair, softly carding through it. Jon melts with it, letting himself relax. He can’t wait to go home, for this nightmare to finally be over.

Jonah pulls away, unties and removes the gag. “There now,” he says, tracing his thumb softly over Jon’s cheek. “I did ask them not to gag you.”

“Jonah, I—” Jon stops, his heart stuttering as he realizes what Jonah just said. “What?” his voice sounds faint.

“I was hoping to avoid this, to be honest. I wanted you to Ask them, for them to explain all this to you.” His hand slides down to Jon’s wrist, over the shackle there. “I really hate seeing you like this. But I couldn’t leave you down here without an explanation.”

Jon can’t—think, his heart is too loud, his breath is too loud. He can hardly hear himself say, “What are you talking about? Jonah, I haven’t done anything!”

Jonah looks fond. “Dear Jonathan. Of course you haven’t. This isn’t about you at all.”

“Then—then—” What’s happening? Why is Jonah doing this?

“Ask me,” Jonah says.

“Jonah, no, I—” Jon doesn’t compel Jonah. He doesn’t. He loves Jonah, he trusts him, there’s no need—

“I want you to know that I am telling you the truth,” Jonah says. His voice is gentle.

Jon swallows. When he speaks, his voice is shaky. “ **Why are you doing this?** ”

Jonah closes his eyes, feeling the compulsion wash over him. He inhales, breathing it in deeply. He opens his eyes again, looking straight at Jon and they are still fond, but there is something—cold, in them. Something that sends a spike of fear through Jon’s stomach, that causes his chest to tighten.

“I find myself in a precarious position, Jon,” Jonah begins. “I have many enemies, and few resources to prevent those enemies from encroaching on the few holdings I possess. Given my disinheritance, I also don’t have any bonds of family loyalty to rely on in case one of my enemies gets greedy.

“I need power. Not the kind that comes from a massive army, because I simply don’t have enough subjects to throw into military service. I need the kind of power that an individual can possess. The kind of power that can only come from magic.”

They’ve discussed this before. How to consolidate power through magical means. It’s been the center of their studies since they’ve known each other, but—

“I know you’re confused,” Jonah says. “I’ve been working on a theory, recently, based on our studies of various kinds of emotional magic.”

Jon remembers those studies, but they didn’t yield anything conclusive. Emotional magic in general is more powerful than non-emotional magic, but as far as they could tell, no particular emotion was stronger than the others. And all forms were _much_ harder to control.

“There’s something you don’t know,” Jonah says. “Since we began that research, I’ve been running my own experiments. I had this room constructed in secret, and I confirmed what I already suspected to be true—fear is by far the strongest emotion with which to cast magic. The tradeoff, however, as I’m sure you already guessed, is wild unpredictability. So, I began a new experiment: Is it possible to cast magic fueled by the emotions of another?”

Some kind of despair rises in Jon’s throat as he begins to see where Jonah is going. But he refuses to believe it. Jonah can’t—Jonah wouldn’t—

“The experiments were a success, with a single caveat: the strength of the magic I could cast with another’s fear directly correlated to the strength of the magic they could cast themself. I could become the most powerful mage of our age by far, but I would need another strong mage to act as a sort of... battery. And, well—” Jonah looks around the room, then back at Jon. “Here we are.”

“Jonah, that— _What?_ You can’t be serious.”

“I am serious,” Jonah says. “This room is charmed, to keep you alive, no matter what. You won’t die for lack of food, or water. Any wounds you sustain will heal quickly. And age won’t be able to touch you. In spite of that, however, I’m afraid this will be a rather unpleasant experience for you. In order to be an effective battery, you must spend most of your time afraid. You’ll be alone, for the rest of your life, trapped here with nothing and no one to save you.”

Jon swallows, a hard lump forming in his throat. “You’re just—you’re just leaving me here? How—” _How could you?_ He wants to ask, but that sounds horribly naive, now. He doesn’t know if he should laugh, or cry, or scream. He’s split between heartbreak and fear, and he _can’t_ —

Jonah looks at him for a long moment as Jon tries to think of anything to say, and then he turns away. “Goodbye, Jon,” he says. And then he starts back toward the door. Leaving Jon—here.

“Jonah,” Jon says, starting after him, his voice breaking. “Jonah, don’t—Please, please Jonah, don’t leave me here, don’t—”

The chains clank, reaching their limit, and Jon strains against them. Jonah is leaving, and he can’t, he, he, he—

Jonah turns back, and something like hope stutters in Jon’s chest. His arms are pulled back behind him by the chains, his chest heaving with his too-fast breaths, desperate fallen tears wetting his cheeks. Jonah comes back to him, cards a hand through Jon’s hair. He places his hand against the back of Jon’s head, one finger scratching at his hairline. Then he leans forward, pressing his forehead to Jon’s.

“I will miss you,” he says, and then he lets go.

“Jonah,” Jon says, but Jonah doesn’t react in the slightest. “Jonah, don’t do this,” Jon tries again. Jonah reaches the door, and something in Jon breaks. “No, no, no, no, Jonah, please, _please_ Jonah, no—”

Jonah opens the door, and Jon is screaming now. “ _Jonah, please—_ ”

The door swings closed, and Jonah is gone.

_Thunk._

Jon is locked in.

Forever.

It’s silent now, except for Jon, whose stuttering breaths sound very, very loud. They’re coming too fast, and he knows that, but what does it even matter?

Jon falls to his knees, his entire body trembling. His arms ache where they’re pulled so harshly behind him, but that doesn’t matter either, does it?

Jon is alone. No one is coming to save him.

Jon lets himself panic.

***

It’s intolerable, being trapped all alone in the dark. It’s intolerable, but after the first few days, after the thirst and hunger and aching cold and heartbreak all fade, it becomes a numb kind of intolerable. Jon lays on the floor, staring at nothing, drifting in and out of sleep.

It’s peaceful, in its own way. He thinks this might be what death is like, and he finds a bit of solace in the thought.

Then Jonah starts sending him visitors.

The first time the door opens, Jon’s heart surges with a manic sort of joy. Perhaps Jonah’s had a change of heart, perhaps he’s being rescued from this prison.

But the man who comes through the door is not Jonah. And he is not here to rescue Jon.

The visitors are all different, but they all hurt him. Slowly delivered cuts and deep, painful burns, and bruises upon bruises upon bruises.

His wounds heal quickly, but the fear remains. His dreams are unpleasant, his waking hours no better. He watches the door, constantly fearful of the next moment it will open, bringing some fresh pain with it.

No one comes to save him.

***

The visitors stop, and Jon doesn’t get an explanation. They _have_ stopped, Jon is sure about that. For a long time, he thought Jonah was just letting him fester for a little while. Giving him a break from the pain while Jonah himself rested between battles, between campaigns.

But it’s been months now. Years, maybe. And no one has come.

He isn’t less afraid. He keeps wondering if Jonah has something worse than the visitors planned, something that Jon can’t even imagine. Even that is better than wondering if Jonah has just forgotten about him.

The thought brings him to tears, and Jon hates himself for it. Hates himself for missing Jonah, hates himself for how often he fantasizes about curling up beside him in the early morning, Jonah’s fingers combing through his hair, their bed soft and warm.

It’s so _cold_ in the cavern.

One day, one of Jon’s chains breaks. One of the links just… crumbles to dust, leaving him with a heavy shackle connected to a rusty chain that isn’t attached to anything.

The other chain breaks not long after that. It doesn’t matter. The door is still bolted shut. _Thunk_. Jon tries it, just to be sure, and he works himself into a panic attack trying to force his way through the door. He didn’t think he had any panic left in him.

Still, it’s… better, sort of, being able wander the cavern at will. He wonders idly if Jonah will send someone to fix the chains. He remembers his plan, from so long ago, and practices swinging the chains around, trying to make them as lethal of weapons as possible.

He can only practice for a short time before he needs to rest, but it’s nice to be doing something. It’s nice to have a plan.

Then he swings the chain badly, carelessly. It hits his knee hard, and he falls to the floor, seized with fresh, sharp pain. Broken. It heals quickly, of course, but he’s still lying there for hours (days?) waiting for the agony to end.

He gives up practicing. It’s obvious by now that no one is coming.

A few weeks (months? years?) later, the iron has degraded enough Jon is able to pull most of the chain away from his shackles, leaving behind just a few useless links. It’s better, marginally, than dragging the long chains behind him.

He continues to be alone for a long, long time.

No one comes.

***

Voices.

Jon opens his eyes a crack, but the cavern is still just empty. The door is closed. Just his imagination, then. A dream, got too loud. He closes his eyes again, tries to get back to sleep.

The voices get louder, and now Jon can hear footsteps. Outside the door, getting closer.

His heart rate picks up, and he presses himself closer against the cold stone behind him. His hand drifts toward his chain, but by this point it’s so degraded that it won’t make much of a weapon.

If it’s a visitor, they’d probably enjoy watching him try to defend himself. It isn’t good, when they enjoy themselves.

But if it’s Jonah—

Jon dismisses the thought. It won’t be Jonah.

They’re more than one, judging by the noises outside. Grunting, straining. Struggling with the bolt on the door.

There’ve never been multiple visitors before. Jon swallows, shrinking into himself in fear. He should have known that this was only a break, that Jonah would eventually bring him more pain, worse pain.

The door swings open, and there are three that step through. He doesn’t recognize any of them, although they all look like people. Once, Jon would have taken comfort in that.

It takes a little while for them to spot Jon, hidden as he is in the shadow of the stone. They’re clearly impressed by the vastness of the cavern, talking excitedly to each other. One of them has a notepad that she is scribbling furiously onto.

The shortest one spots him first, followed by the one with a sword at his hip. They both nudge the notepad one, and then three pairs of eyes are trained directly on him. They look like he’s doing something wrong, by being here, and he shrinks deeper into himself, wrapping his arms tightly around his ribs.

All three of them move forward, and Jon lets out a sharp gasp of fear. He can’t do this, not again, he can’t take it.

They stop, and the shorter one murmurs something to the other two. Then he approaches, alone.

He crouches down a few paces from Jon, well out of arms’ reach. It’s meant to put Jon more at ease, but Jon knows that distance isn’t necessarily protection from the kinds of things that visit him. “Hello,” he says, his voice soft.

Jon doesn’t respond, just keeps watching him closely while also keeping an eye on his friends. When they decide to attack, it will _not_ come as a surprise to him.

“I’m Martin,” he says. “What’s your name?”

Ah, so they’re that kind. The kind whose torment comes from names and identity, confusion. Jon isn’t going to make their game easier for them.

“Okay,” Martin says, if if Jon had actually given him an answer. “That’s Tim and Sasha,” he gestured to the other two, who both smiled when he looked over. “Um, we’re researchers?” Martin continued. “Well, Sasha is, anyway. We’re studying the ruins here, comparing the surviving architectural details to the extant descriptions of various homes that belonged to the Lukas estate. And uh—” he laughs, but not with humor. It’s higher-pitched, almost manic. “We really weren’t expect to find any living things, other than mice, so you’ve given us a bit of a shock.”

Jon just stares at him. What is he talking about? Researchers? Are they trying to get his guard down by—by confusing him?

“We don’t want to hurt you,” Martin says, raising his hands.

Jon can’t help it; he laughs at that. Do they really think he’s that stupid?

A complicated expression passes across Martin’s face. “Well, it’s at least good to know that you understand what I’m saying,” he mutters. He looks away, drums his fingers on his wrist a few times. Then he looks back at Jon. “It’s fine if you don’t trust us, but—can you at least tell us how you got here? Just, if there’s a group of, of bandits or something that hang around here, we’d rather be prepared for it.”

Jon narrows his eyes, looking from Martin to Tim and Sasha. What is the point of these questions? They _know_ why he’s down here. They wouldn’t be here, otherwise.

“Right,” Martin sighs at his silence. “Listen, are you okay to walk? I mean, it’s a lot of stairs back to the surface, and I don’t want you to exhaust yourself, but—”

“To the surface?” Jon interrupts. His voice is rough from disuse, and he hardly recognizes it. “You, what—You’re taking me out?”

Martin nods. “I mean, not—Unless you’d rather stay here? We’re not kidnapping you or anything, but—”

Jon tunes him out, can’t listen anymore over the sudden buzzing in his ears. Jon—Jon doesn’t know what to do. What is this? A trap, or a test, or—

“ **Where is Jonah?** ” Jon demands, compulsion flowing from his mouth without him thinking about it, without meaning to. He didn’t know he even could, anymore.

But Martin is just blinking at him. “I don’t know. I don’t know who that is.”

Jon’s mouth is dry. “ **Who sent you here?** ”

“No one. I told you, we’re researchers. We came of our own accord, and found this cavern on accident.”

Jon’s heart is pounding, loud, loud, loud. “I don’t— **Who is Lord of this castle?** ” Martin had said Lukas’ name earlier, hadn’t he? Was he the current Lord?

“No one,” Martin says. “The castle’s been abandoned for thirteen hundred years, at least. It’s not really even a castle anymore, just ruins.”

Jon stares at him, swaying slightly, feeling as if the entire floor has been pulled out from under him. Thirteen hundred years. He opens his mouth, closes it. What else is there to even ask?

Jon lets out a sharp laugh, then claps a hand over his mouth before it can turn to a sob. He muffles a harsh whimpering noise, then takes a deep breath, collecting himself. He feels fragile. He feels numb.

He pulls himself to his feet, and starts walking toward the door, chains still jingling around his wrists.

“Al _right_ then,” he hears Martin mutter, getting up and following after him.

Tim and Sasha don’t stop him as he passes by them, although he does hear Martin stop and exchange a few words with them. Then he hears three sets of footsteps, following him.

Getting up the stairs is an ordeal. There are a lot of them, and he doesn’t have the stamina to get up more than ten at a time. At one point, Martin offers to carry him, but Jon doesn’t dignify that offer with more than a glare.

Eventually, they make it all the way up the stairs, and Jon sees—the place that once was his home. Except it’s different now. The tapestries are all gone, along with some of the walls. The soft, luxurious rugs have been replaced by creeping moss and weeds.

He finds the stairs, and begins the painstaking journey to the second level. The three start to follow him, but he stops them with a glare. “Please,” he says, and to their credit, they stay behind.

He goes to the bedroom, what’s left of it, where he would lay for hours, safe in Jonah’s arms. ( _Where Jonah betrayed him._ ) The bed is gone, of course, and tree branches creep in through the window where he once sat watching the sunset.

He lays down in the spot where the bed once was. Thirteen hundred years. Thirteen hundred years, plus however long before that he was already imprisoned. Thirteen hundred years, all alone, and Jon didn’t even know it.

Jon curls his arms around himself, arms that haven’t been near enough comfort for centuries now. He doesn’t want to see Jonah again, except for how he so desperately does. He wants warmth, comfort, safety. He wants his home back. He wants for none of this to have ever happened.

He lets himself cry, and for the first time in such a long time, it’s a choice that _actually_ matters.

***

He wakes up, and it’s dark. Not the dim-dark of the cavern, but a new kind of dark. A moonlit darkness. He looks out the window, and through the canopy of trees overhead, he can see stars.

Oh.

He’s forgotten about stars.

He heads back downstairs, and to his surprise, the three are still waiting for him. They’re seated on the floor, a lantern lit between them. Tim and Martin are talking in a low voice, heads dipped together. Sasha is laying on her belly, scribbling on her notepad.

The conversation stops when he enters the room, the four of them all just staring at each other.

Jon feels awkward, all of a sudden. It’s been so long since he’s had to talk to people. He doesn’t know what to say, where to begin.

But Martin saves him from that. He smiles at him, says, “Hey.”

“Hello,” Jon says, trying a small smile of his own.

Tim stretches, yawning massively. “Right, well now that we’ve got this one, how about heading back to the hotel?”

“Sounds great,” Sasha says, flipping her notebook shut.

“Uh,” Martin looks at Jon. “How do you feel about that? Are you okay with leaving?”

“Not permanently,” Tim says. “Just to sleep somewhere where there are actual beds.”

“Yes, that sounds—fine,” Jon says.

They lead him outside, and he shivers in the cold nighttime air. He’s well-used to the cold by now, but Martin notices.

“Here,” he says, holding out the soft blue cloak he’s been wearing around his shoulders. “I don’t want you to be cold.”

Jon takes it, a little hesitantly, and wraps it around his shoulders. It’s warm, and more than that, it’s _soft_. Jon wants to sink into the feeling, revel in it forever. But they’re still moving, so he keeps following.

Jon expects that they will have horses, and is a bit shocked to see their ‘car.’ He swallows his questions about it, taking a seat beside Martin. He can’t stop himself from flinching when the engine roars to life, but after that it’s—nice. It’s warm, inside the car, and he leans against the window, bunching up Martin’s cloak to use as a pillow.

He drifts off, warm and safe and surrounded people who will eventually become a new home.

**Author's Note:**

> @suttttton on tumblr! come say hi!


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